


Sometimes the End is really the Beginning

by Vagabond



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, john is not dead, post return 0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7293613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Machine is not the only one who can rise out of the ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes the End is really the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon on tumblr who requested: "Prompt, please: He's Not Dead." 
> 
> Damn straight he isn't.

“Now, John,” the Machine whispered into his ear before she crackled out, dead, ready to be reborn out of the ashes of what was. 

The weight of the Kevlar beneath his shirt, littered with bullets, strained him. Even with it, John had multiple wounds, and his body ached as his muscles begged him to stay on the ground. With the missile headed straight for the building he mustered what strength he could and pitched himself over the side. 

His landing was anything but pleasant as he slammed hard into the metal floor of a window washing cart on the side of the building. With blurred vision he hit the button hard and the cart dropped steadily. It rocked when the missile hit as the building swayed and part of it crumbled. About ten feet from the ground it stopped, stuck on something, and John grit his teeth as he pitched himself over the side again and landed in a pile of garbage. 

People deserted the area, running and screaming as a result of the missile, which worked just fine for John. He lifted himself up off of the garbage and rolled to the street where he remained on his knees and stared up at the carnage above him, at the ash and rubble. The arm of a stranger went around his waist and he ended up seated in the back of a high end car, which is where he finally passed out. 

The following days blurred together as he danced in and out of consciousness. It was better to sleep, he thought, because then he would not have to think about the look on Harold’s face, or the hot trail his blood created on his skin, or the fact he was pretty sure he’d fractured his arm. Nurses and doctors, nameless and faceless, drifted above him in those moments of weak consciousness and he marveled at the efficiency of the Machine. 

_Hiring frenzy, indeed_. He smiled. His face hurt. 

John spent his first long stretch of consciousness in a hospital bed with natural light filtering through the window. At first he attempted to sit up, but sharp pain in his abdomen forced him back down. He was quite certain the hospital was not in New York City, and perhaps was not even in the state. Doctors and nurses continued to come and go, but they always changed. Rarely did he see the same person more than three or four times.

He wondered what day it was, what month, how long he had been unconscious, where Harold was, if Shaw was alive, if Fusco thought he was dead. Between heavy doses of pain medication he thought of his friends and very little else. 

“Hey,” he rattled one day, throat dry, voice hoarse from disuse. “If you’re there, if we succeeded, are they safe? Did they make it out?”

Silence answered him. John didn’t know what he had expected. 

A couple days later a new nurse came to check his vitals and offered him a kind smile. 

“I don’t quite know what Mr. Thornhill means,” she began, and John looked at her, “but he wanted me to let you know that you are in good hands, and everything is okay.”

“Where am I?” John asked. 

“I’m afraid that’s all I have for you today, Mr. Riley,” the nurse answered and offered him a sad smile. “Rest, please, it is for the best.” 

Months of treatment left him bored, but steadily improving. A physical therapist came and worked with him on his strength, and with each passing day John’s body remembered who he was. Machines and medical equipment phased out of his room, and when he returned from testing one day his hospital bed had been replaced with a normal bed. He stood by the window and looked out at the swaying pine trees and pondered what the bed, or any of it, really meant. 

Somewhere in his room a phone buzzed, emitting a soft, jaunty tune. He looked around and realized a phone and an earpiece rested on the counter. John moved faster than he had in months and jammed the earpiece into his ear before he answered the call. 

“Can you hear me?” Root’s voice surprised him, startled him, reminded him of explosions and gunfire. 

“Yes,” he answered. “Is everyone alive? Did they make it?”

Silence stretched on for a moment before the Machine responded, “Yes, they made it.” 

Relief washed over John, his heart a hundred times lighter than it had been. 

“Where am I?”

“Washington,” she replied. 

“DC?” John asked, before he realized DC wouldn’t have pine trees, “state, then. Why?” 

“To rest, John. I thought you would appreciate something familiar, perhaps something from your birth. After all, you have a new life now.”

He hesitated, “the nurse, she called me Riley. Is that cover still intact, is that who I am now?” 

“You are whoever you want to be, John. Rebirth is funny like that. It took me a while to remember who I was. You can choose to remember too, or start over. Whichever you’d like,” Root’s voice offered. 

A new life would be fine by him, but he had one burning question first, “can I see them?” 

“You can do anything you want, you’re free.” 

“And the numbers?” 

“Anything you want,” the Machine repeated. 

****

Light, white cotton clung to his hot skin. Italy in the summer was delightful. John could understand why Harold would send Grace there, and no doubt follow suit. While the Machine had been helpful in establishing a new life, she left John to find the rest of the team on his own. ‘ _I can’t do everything, John_ ,’ she’d said when he asked for her assistance, a note of amusement in her tone. 

So he slipped back into the life of a man in the shadows, albeit a lot wealthier than he had ever been, and without the full range of skills he once held. The damage done on the rooftop and throughout his journey afterward provided a number of difficulties he had been unable to overcome. His time with the numbers would have to wait, but before he pursued a new purpose, he wanted to at least find closure. 

He found Harold at the market and followed him, watched the familiar cadence of his steps as they made their way through the crowd. John wondered at times if he would be welcome, or if Harold would be angry. The last moment on the roof together had not been their finest and he’d never been able to shake the memory of the final look on his friend’s face as they parted ways. 

John missed the small figure dressed in black behind him and groaned as he opened his eyes and found himself face first on the ground. The people around them parted ways and ignored what probably looked like an ordinary tussle. 

“I don’t know who you are, but you’re-”

“Shaw?” John interrupted and turned his head to look at her. He took in her wide-eyed stare. 

“Reese? What the hell? You’re dead,” she insisted as she let him up and took a few steps backward. “What are you doing here? How are you here?“

“Nice to see you too, Shaw,” John answered as he stood and brushed dirt off of his clothes. He glanced in the direction Harold went and realized he’d lost track of him. “What are you doing here?” 

“No, no. You first. You’re the one with a grave back in New York.”

“The Machine saved me,” John replied and shrugged. “Sort of. It was touch and go for a while I think but in the end, she saved me.” 

“Why have you been gone for so long?” Shaw asked. 

“Recovery. I’m not quite what I used to be,” John admitted, “I did get blown up after all.”

“So what, are you a cyborg now?” 

“No, just a guy wanting to check in on his friends,” John defended, and hoped he was not a cyborg. 

“Same,” Shaw stated, “you asked why I was here, and Harold is the reason. We could use his help. Plus the dog misses him.”

“We?” 

“New team, sort of. Me and Fusco, at least. The Machine recruits odds and ends when necessary. Just because you’ve been busy napping for the past year doesn’t mean the rest of us have,” Shaw pointed out. 

“Hey, I got blown up,” John insisted. 

“Yeah, yeah, big hero, I get it,” Shaw remarked and smiled. “So, I guess I’ll let you take first crack at him. It will probably make my appearance here a little less insane after he sees you.” 

“If he even wants to see me,” John murmured and scowled when Shaw smacked his upper arm. 

“Of course he wants to see you, dumbass. I’ll even clue you into the address,” she offered and pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket to give him. He accepted it. 

“Thank you,” John said.

“Yeah, well, don’t be a stranger. Fusco would like to see your sorry ass again. He took it pretty hard when we realized you were gone,” Shaw replied and then appeared to hesitate, “come back to New York anytime,” she said quietly. 

“I will, Shaw.” John rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, before he turned and made his way through the busy street in the direction he believed Harold went. 

Eventually, with a few helpful directions from a local, he stood in front of a brightly painted doorway to a quintessential Italian home. At first he hesitated and considered leaving and never looking back, but finally lifted his hand and knocked on the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a prompt for me? Leave it in my [ASKBOX](http://waffleironbiddingwar.tumblr.com/ask).


End file.
